After that he found the right platform, boarded his train, and took his seat. He pretended to read the newspaper, while keeping a close eye on the platform. When the train finally pulled out of the station, Rapp relaxed a touch with the comforting thought that he was putting distance between himself and the crime. Distance, he had been taught by Hurley, was your greatest ally and your number-one objective after taking someone out. As the train rolled through some of Istanbul’s less desirable neighborhoods, he thought of Hurley. The man would lose it when he retrieved the message.

Rapp spent the rest of the afternoon hopping westbound trains until he crossed the Greek border at two in the afternoon. The Greeks and Turks did not have good relations, diplomatic or otherwise, so for all intents and purposes he was safe. He was sick of riding in trains and listening to other people yammer, so he decided to rent a car. It would be returned at the Macedonia International Airport in Thessaloniki, and as long as he didn’t kill anyone in Greece, no one would care that an American by the name of Mike Kruse had rented a crappy little red, four-cylinder Flat.

Rapp pointed the tin can south and headed for the coast. As he neared the ocean he cracked the window and smelled salt air. The landscape before him didn’t look anything like the travel brochures he’d thumbed through back at the rental agency. The city of Alexandroupolis lay before him, an industrial fishing village with a few archeological sites of significance. Istanbul it was not. It was gray and brown and dirty and dead and it didn’t affect his mood one bit. Rapp was not the kind of person who allowed geography or climate to depress him—as long as he didn’t have to stay in one place too long. He rolled through Alexandroupolis just before sunset and continued up the coast for another fifteen kilometers until he found a small light blue seaside hotel. It was off season so the place was not busy and the rate was cheap. Rapp wheeled his bag straight into the reception area, which also doubled as the bar and dining room.

A heavyset, older gentleman waved to Rapp from behind the bar. Rapp walked over and the two of them worked out the details in broken English. The proprietor then held up a bottle of liquor and asked Rapp if he would like a drink. Rapp wondered for a brief second what Hurley and Richards were doing in Athens, and then decided that a drink was a great idea. He ordered a beer. The barkeep placed a bottle of Mythos in front of him along with a full bottle of ouzo and two shot glasses. He filled both glasses and slid one closer to Rapp. It was the beginning of a long night.

Three beers, and as many shots, into the evening, Rapp looked at the house phone and considered calling Hurley at his hotel. He dismissed the idea as a bad one and ordered some dinner. Fortunately, two college kids from England showed up and the bartender now had to divide his attention among the three of them. Four beers and a few more shots later, Rapp looked up and caught a reflection of himself in the mirror. It was at that exact moment that he realized a killer was staring back at him. He studied the reflection for a long moment and then held up a shot glass filled with ouzo. He toasted the man in the mirror and went to bed. He did not awaken until almost noon the next day.

CHAPTER 25

VIENNA, VIRGINIA

THE world headquarters for International Software Logistics, Inc., or ISL, was located in a new office park on Kingsley Road. The campus, as the developers called it, consisted of five buildings. They were all made of brown brick and reflective glass. Three of the buildings were strictly office space while the other two were a mix of office and industrial. The developers were an LLC out of the Bahamas who had quietly set aside the southernmost building for Software Logistics. It was at the far end of the office park and it backed up to a ravine. Nice and private. The building had twenty-two thousand square feet of space. The front quarter was built out with a reception area, six offices, a conference room, an area for cubicles, a break room, and a bathroom. The warehouse occupied the remainder of the space and for the most part sat vacant. There were plans, however, to do some expansion.

Stansfield looked at the building through the windshield of a Dodge Caravan and suppressed his concern. These front companies were laborious to set up. The LLC he was part of had directed legitimate funds into the development of this piece of land. The other owners were like-minded men of his era who had made millions and now in that final season of their lives were suddenly very concerned with where their country was headed. All five of them had fought in World War II under the command of Wild Bill Donovan, who ran the Office of Strategic Services. After the war they went on to have successful careers in defense, politics, finance, and in Stansfield’s case, espionage. He went to great lengths to make sure they were protected should the Orion Team ever be exposed. But they all understood that if you were going to run an effective clandestine operation you actually had to lock horns with the enemy and possibly get your hands very dirty.

Kennedy told him she could handle the meeting, but he had his doubts. It wasn’t that he didn’t think her capable. While it was perfectly fine to send people off with messages, words had a funny way of being interpreted differently by different people, often in a way that gave them the outcome they were seeking. And there was a very real chance that his old friend would steamroll her. Even so, his desk was full and he did not want to go through the deceptions it would take to actually get to the meeting.

Kennedy left his office and Stansfield began to systematically move through the stacks on his desk and map table that required his close attention. As the afternoon ticked away he periodically found himself staring out the window thinking about the new recruit. There was something about this Rapp fellow. He hadn’t seen any of his people this fired up about anything in a long time. The kid was either a diamond in the rough or a disaster waiting to happen, depending on who you listened to. Kennedy was possibly biased by the fact that he was her find and Hurley was surly on a good day and an intolerable bastard on a bad day, so it was hard to see who was right. Lewis was steady, analytical, and unfortunately had no desire to run things. He had no doubt that Kennedy was right for the job, but she needed a few more years under her belt before she would be ready.

Stansfield stewed over their personalities for a good five minutes and then decided he needed to go to the meeting. The outcome was preordained. Hurley had never liked this Rapp fellow, and while Kennedy and Lewis were formidable, Hurley would wear them down with his bombastic, stubborn ways. And in truth, it was his call. As the person in charge of field ops he needed to be able to trust his men without question. Stansfield became stuck on the team concept for a second. Through all of the bickering and managing of egos, they had lost sight of one very important fact—the new recruit had not only succeeded, but had done so on his own. He arrived in Istanbul and less than twenty-four hours later he had successfully removed a very nasty thorn in America’s side. There were a number of allies who would be cheering Sharif’s death as well, and Stansfield hoped that at least one of them would be blamed. As much as Stansfield would love to take the credit for the assassination of Istanbul’s merchant of death, he couldn’t. The Orion Team needed complete anonymity or they risked investigation and exposure, which would in short order render them useless. That was why these new recruits could have no link whatsoever to Langley.